


Imagine: Sharing a magical Easter tradition with Castiel.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [35]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddles, Easter, Easter Eggs, Fluff, Protective Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-17 00:10:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14176362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Sharing a magical Easter tradition with Castiel.

You glance up from the vial of indigo clamped in your palm, the viscous ink filched from one of the many Men of Letters storage rooms scattered throughout the bunker in your midnight meandering, to see Castiel standing before the assortment of beakers, bowls, utensils, candles, veritable apothecary of odd ingredients, and brightly shaded liquids arranged on the kitchen counter. You did not expect him home tonight. He must have been quiet in his arrival, anticipating you and the brothers to be fast asleep given the extreme lateness of the hour. Finding your bedsheets cold and fitfully mangled, you surmise he went searching in your usual sleepless hangouts and became distracted by the strange set-up. 

Pausing on the first step of the stair leading into the bunker’s utilitarian kitchen, snugly socked toes poised precipitously over the next, you watch, captivated by terror, as his nostrils flare and his nose screws up in aversion as he lifts a wide-mouth flute filled with a deep crimson solution precipitously upward and sniffs. “Careful!” you squeak and stumble on the step in haste. Careening, arm extended warningly to grab at his shoulder and to prevent your flailing frame from falling, you worry solely for the safety of his signature trench coat. You happen to be deeply attached to this most recently resurrected iteration of the garment and the beetroot and precious blood-flower petal pigment used to color the water and salt mixture he grips is certain to stain the fabric should he spill so much as a single drop.

Vessel an unyielding rock, hands steady, he absorbs the shock of your blundering momentum and returns the container and its curious contents to the counter without event. His squinting blues flit to study your relieved aspect, forehead wrinkling askance. “What sort of spell is this you’re working on?”

It’s a valid question given your sordid history. You discern from the trepidation clouding his gaze he’s concerned you’re dabbling in a potentially dangerous case on the down low… _again_. You fail to suppress the amused smirk spreading across your lips at his both predic _tive_ and predic _table_ anxiety considering the totally innocuous origins of your actions on this occasion. You love this protective side of your seraph. You overcompensate for your delight, sighing in feigned defeat at being caught red-handed –   _literally,_ since the ruddy hue of your palms indicates you know first and second-hand how quickly the dye seeps into skin. You let him sweat, although angels don’t sweat, for another self-satisfying moment before muttering, “This? Oh, it’s nothing.”

Care for you profound, he likes your penchant for engaging in these sneaky endeavors without aid even less than Sam and Dean do. Plus, you promised not to do this anymore after the last time when you unknowingly mispronounced a syllable of Enochian and managed to summon a Hell _hound_ to haunt the halls of the bunker instead of the flickering fragment of Hell _fire_ you needed to complete another hair-brained hex. No one was happy about the aftermath, least of all Crowley who had to be called in to leash the beast and to whom you all now owe yet another as yet unnamed favor. The furrow of Castiel’s brow darkens in recollection of your sincerely sworn oath to him of _never again_. “Y/N, you said-”

“Relax!” you interrupt, laughing. You affectionately squeeze his arm and use it for leverage to tip up on your toes to plant a kiss to the scruffy skin of his cheek. “You’re adorable when you worry, angel,” you add with a smile and break from his fretful focus to gather a waiting flower vase churning with clear warm water and the half-empty bottle of white vinegar before you on the flat surface. “And as always, I appreciate the concern, I really do, but the only things threatened by my experimentation with dying tonight are the few dozen eggs I’m sacrificing for Easter.” You twist at the stubborn metal cap of the indigo you plan to use to make a lovely shade of celestially sky blue dye and thrust it sideways at the angel without looking. “You mind?”

Eyes roaming the collected components in a less anxious light, he plucks the vial from your fingertips, obliges in loosening the top, and passes it back to your awaiting grasp.

Fingers settling at the small of your back, he shifts nearer and doesn’t ask _why_ you’re planning to tint perfectly edible chicken eggs outlandishly unnatural colors, eggs Dean surely planned to accompany his bacon when he rises in the morning, but you can sense the weight of the wondering question hanging unspoken in the acidic vinegar-leaden atmosphere.

“It’s a tradition,” you offer in explanation, splashing in a long pour of vinegar and tipping several drops of indigo into the water. “Usually people buy kits at the store to dye their eggs, but it’s too late for that so-”

“Like the resourceful human you are, you improvised,” he finishes, watching the navy tincture swirl and bloom. His hand slides to warmly encircle your waist.

“Yeah.” Satisfied with the richness of the shade, you plop an awaiting egg into the mixture and set the timer ticking. Wiping stray streaking droplets of dye on your oversized sleep shirt stolen from Sam, you snug into the angel’s embrace as you wait. “You’re home early, everything go okay up there?” you refer to his latest strides toward reconciling with Heaven.

He buries his face into the messy mass of your hair – perceiving without asking by the tangled state that you tried and failed to sleep tonight as you do on too many nights. Frowning into the soft fluff, he feels a pang of regret he wasn’t there to soothe your slumber as he usually would. “Almost everything,” he admits.

“Almost?”

“I missed you,” he murmurs the sentiment into your locks and presses a kiss to your crown. Nose nuzzling, he breaths in the comforting scent of you, easily distinguishing your sweet notes from the vinegar otherwise spoiling the air as he enfolds you tighter. Cuddled as close as possible, the inhalation expands his ribcage to vibrate with an admiring growl through both your bodies.

“Me, too,” you hum and close your eyes, melting further into the solid heat of his form.

The kitchen timer screeches, rudely intruding on the intimacy.

When you squirm, wriggling your locked limbs free to reach for the vase and the soaking egg, the angel reluctantly releases you from his tender clutches. Unwilling to forgo the comfort of physical closeness after his absence, he repositions himself. Hugging you from behind, unshaven chin tucking in the crook of your neck, he sways with and watches every movement you make over your shoulder.

Plunging a slotted spoon into the vase, you carefully ferry the ink shrouded egg to a paper towel. Blotting the wet surface until it’s dry, you cradle it in your palm and hold it up for him to study. You smile, mostly pleased with the result. 

Although the uniform blue wash of the shell doesn’t do justice to the multi-faceted hue of your angel’s shining eyes, the design drawn in candle wax, a not so magical spell for preventing the dye sinking in, is breathtaking. As you proudly pivot the decorated egg, he sees his name scrolled inside a heart with intricately rendered feathered wings wrapping around the circumference of the shell. 

“Happy Easter, angel,” you coo, feeling the twitch of his fuzzy cheek tickle the delicate skin of your neck as a rare sweeping smile upturns his features.

“Thank you, my love,” he whispers in awe. Turning to kiss the sloping expanse of your throat, his lips sprinkle your skin with tingling traces of his adoration. He trails his fondness for you along the line of your jaw to nuzzle the sensitive spot below your ear. He exhales, quivering breath and gravel voice, “It’s nearly as beautiful as you.”


End file.
